Scars
by aprms
Summary: 'They stared at each other for a few moments, Stiles chewing his lip. "Sorry," he said, and she knew he meant it. He looked like he was debating something in his mind. Then he reached behind his shoulders and grasped the back of his flannel, pulling it over his head.' Post-6A. Stydia.


**First TW fic. Stiles and Lydia are just SOULMATES and they need to be reunited asap or I might die.**

 **I wrote this without a beta just because I wanted to get back into writing and practice as much as possible before trying to finish my old fic, The Criminal (which I definitely DID NOT abandon *sheepish grin*). So if any of the NG fandom is reading this, I'm trying my best. I've been travelling for a while, but I still think about y'all :)**

 _Scars_

He was in the same clothes as the night he was ripped from her. Plaid flannel, jeans, hair sticking up on one side of his head as always. Maybe it was a little messier than she remembered, but he was always running his hands through it when he was stressed. Lydia knew that somehow. She remembered it.

He was about five feet away from her, but neither of them moved. The recognition was coming back to her, crashing into her mind in waves. First his face was a blur, like a dream. She knew him, and she _knew_ she knew him, because he was Stiles, she'd heard his voice. Then she started to remember the little things – the way he looked at her, the way his hand felt in hers, the way his arms felt around her when he knew she needed it. She remembered their friendship, their bond, and how it had been changing into something different and new when he was taken.

Lydia stared at him, and he stared at her, and the air between them was so thick she felt like she couldn't pass through it. And then he spoke, and everything shattered around her, and finally, she was able to reach him.

"Lydia."

He spoke it softly, like he was in pain, but she saw no wounds. She let out a breath she didn't realise she was holding, and her eyes shone with unshed tears, and she threw herself into the space between them.

They collided half way, roughly, her hands clutching at his shoulders like he was about to be taken from her all over again. His arms were around her waist, and then on her back, like he couldn't decide where to put them so he could hold her as close to him as humanly possible. She buried her face in his neck, sobbing. "It's you. We found you. Stiles, it's you."

He didn't seem to know what to say, so he just held her, and she had a feeling he was worried she wasn't real either.

But the pack was suddenly there with them, and Lydia found herself pulled from his grasp as everyone else clamored to touch him and look at his face. Stiles found his voice then, asking Scott about his Dad, asking Malia about Peter. He always needed information, like her. She remembered that too, the long nights spent on their laptops in his room slowly emerging in her brain.

She remembered Stiles Stilinski, and she remembered that he loved her, and she knew with absolute certainty then that she loved him too.

* * *

She wouldn't let him out of her sight, even if that meant following him home, and he seemed surprised at this.

"Lydia, go home," he said, exasperated. She was in her car, in his driveway, and he was standing anxiously by her window. The four of them – Stiles, Lydia, Scott and Malia – had been at the station all night with the Sheriff, and now the sun was up and they needed to sleep, and Lydia refused to leave him.

She shook her head. "Your Dad isn't home yet. You've been by yourself for long enough." Neither of them acknowledged that she hadn't mentioned Claudia. The pain Stiles had to endure seeing his deceased mother's face on an impostor must have been unbearable. Lydia honestly didn't understand how he was still standing – but then again, how were any of them?

She must have looked like her old self for a moment, because Stiles seemed to debate whether or not to continue arguing with her, eventually deciding against it. He sighed, opening her door for her. She stepped graciously out, wincing as she felt the cuts and bruises all over her skin. The Ghost Riders had definitely thrown her around a bit, but it had been nothing a short trip to Melissa at the hospital couldn't fix. Lydia thanked her lucky stars for the hundredth time that night. _We're still alive._

Stiles pulled her to him again, and she folded into his chest like he'd never been gone. "Thank you," he mumbled into her hair, and she wasn't sure whether it was for saving him or for staying with him. She was going to tell him then, that she loved him, because she still hadn't done it. It had been clawing its way up her throat all night, but somehow it felt so huge, telling him, so she had swallowed it down. It was a strange feeling to her, being scared of Stiles. It wasn't the fear of rejection, she knew he loved her. He had told her so. It was the fear of not knowing what to do next. It was the fear of losing his friendship. It was the fear of losing _him_. She couldn't go through that again.

So she simply let him take her hand and lead her into his empty house, stifling a huge yawn as she did so.

"Stiles," she said softly as he rummaged in his drawers for something she could wear, "I'm sorry." It was strange that neither of them spoke about how she was obviously staying in his bed with him. It almost seemed trivial to bring it up, like they'd been through too much together to worry about what was acceptable and what wasn't.

He looked at her, and she could tell he was surprised. "For what?"

"For not remembering you. You must have been so alone."

"Lydia, you remembered." He tossed her a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

"Not straight away." She felt tears coming, and swallowed them down.

He sighed through his nose, straightening so he could face her. "Lydia."

She couldn't look at him, because everything was different now and she didn't know how to be around him. Her skin was on fire and he was looking at her and a day ago she wasn't even sure who exactly Stiles was to her, and now she knew he was _everything_. Lydia's walls had been crumbling for months now, but finally she felt them fall away, and she was almost relieved. Being Lydia Martin suddenly didn't feel so difficult.

Then she forgot herself, forgot that Stiles was only her friend and that he didn't know how she felt about him. She forgot that this was his room and not hers, and that they weren't together. So she found herself delicately lifting her sweater over her head, trying not to disturb too many of her lesions, stifling the small sound of pain that escaped her mouth. _You could have been a lot worse_ , she thought to herself as she placed it on his dresser, reaching for the tee.

She heard his sharp intake of breath before she saw the look on his face, and then she realised. "Oh," was all she could say as he stared at her in her sports bra and jeans. She felt her ears get hot.

But he wasn't ogling her. She had ditched the provocative lingerie she used to wear what felt like a lifetime ago when she was supposed to be pretty and gorgeous and fuckable. When she had to _impress_ people like Jackson and Aiden, guys who only wanted Lydia Martin, ice queen with the sky high heels and underwear begging to be ripped off. Now she was Lydia, banshee with the sky high IQ and enough scars to ensure she definitely wasn't having any one night stands. Even the dumbest of jocks would have at least a couple of questions about the claw marks littered all over her stomach.

But Stiles was looking at her like she was a map, and he was trying to read it. "Lydia," he breathed, taking a step towards her. "I…I forgot."

Suddenly she wanted to cover herself, the walls starting to creep back up. She felt ugly and mangled. The all-too-familiar memory of Peter Hale slashing at her body resurfaced, and she shied away from Stiles, desperate to be clothed again. People liked the way she dressed. She liked that it distracted them. She liked that it distracted herself.

"Comes with the territory, right?" she replied, and tried to laugh, fully intending to lift the tee over her head, but her arms were like lead.

Stiles shook his head, and he was closer all of a sudden. "Don't." He placed his warm hand over her arm. "Just…let me see. Let me look."

They both seemed pretty taken aback by his boldness, but Lydia was tired, too tired to object.

He lifted her arm slightly, and traced the biggest of the claw marks with his finger, almost comfortingly. Lydia closed her eyes. He made sure to avoid the fresh grazes on her ribs as he rubbed the white skin of her scars softly. "Peter," he murmured, and Lydia was pretty sure he was talking to himself at this point.

He moved his hand to her other side. "Tracy." His thumb brushed the deep welt and Lydia shivered. She gazed at him as he intently examined every inch of her, his eyebrows knitted in concentration. His eyes travelled upwards and he reached out to brush her hair away from her shoulders, letting his palm rest on her neck.

Lydia couldn't breathe.

"Jennifer." He grazed his fingers along the scar, neat and straight and almost invisible. Then the one underneath, messy and jagged. "Sebastien."

He was almost whispering.

"Stiles," Lydia breathed, her eyes shining with tears. "Stop it." She wasn't sure if she wanted him to or not.

He pulled his hand away immediately and blinked, like he was coming out of a daze. They stared at each other for a few moments, Stiles chewing his lip. "Sorry," he said, and she knew he meant it. He looked like he was debating something in his mind. Then he reached behind his shoulders and grasped the back of his flannel, pulling it over his head.

"What are you doing?" Lydia asked, the words coming out broken and shocked. Stiles threw his shirt to one side, moving to remove his tee, his fingers hovering over the collar for a fraction of a second before he made his decision, tugging it off.

Lydia had never seen Stiles without at least two layers on. He'd seen her naked that one time, when she was running around the woods like an animal. But he'd always been self-conscious, especially around Scott, and who could blame him? His best friend was a werewolf, all rippled muscles and superhuman strength.

Lydia looked at him as he stood before her, shirtless, covered in scars of his own. Years of constantly being at war with something or other had filled him out, broadening his shoulders and chest. Lydia had known that, the amount of times she'd been enveloped in his embrace. She knew he was strong and athletic from keeping up with the rest of the pack, just like her, even if the two of them were always the last ones over the finish line. The sun was really up now, slanting into his room, catching the skin of his shoulders. He was beautiful.

Stiles took her hand and guided it to his shoulder, placing it at the rough skin there. "Donovan," he said simply, not taking his eyes off her the whole time. Lydia sucked in a breath, approaching him with caution, letting her fingers move over the circular patch of indented skin. She peered at it with genuine curiosity. He moved her hand again, fingers intertwining with hers, and then she was brushing her palm over a gash above his right hipbone. "Malia."

Something stirred in the pit of her stomach and she glanced up at him, trying to read his face. He shrugged and couldn't meet her eyes. "Some areas took…longer for her than others." His ears were red.

Lydia tried not to be jealous, she knew there was no need, but she did feel a pang at the thought of Malia arching against Stiles, crying out, and chastised herself for thinking about it. It didn't matter now. He kept her gaze for a couple of seconds and then turned around, letting Lydia rest her fingers against his back, where a claw mark the size of her arm stretched from his left shoulder to the middle of his spine, above the waistline of his jeans. It was more faded than the others. "Scott."

Lydia swallowed down tears, because she had no idea how much Stiles had _killed himself_ trying to help his friends, his _pack_. She remembered how Malia had spiralled out of control without Stiles, how Scott must have been the same when he was freshly bitten. She felt an overwhelming desire to wrap Stiles up in her arms, to take care of him the way he always did with everyone else.

"You're not ugly." Stiles stated, and Lydia snapped her head up to look at him, still turned away from her. "We're…we're not ugly." He was facing her again, taking her hands in his. "We're survivors."

"I know," she whispered, squeezing his fingers. "I just forget sometimes."

He helped her into his t-shirt before he left for the bathroom, taking his sweats with him. Once the door closed behind him, Lydia let herself breathe normally.

They lay side by side in his bed, watching each other, waiting for the other to fall asleep. Lydia was exhausted, the day and night's events starting to catch up with her.

"I don't remember what my life was like before you were in it," she murmured, and she heard his breathing hitch, his eyes soft and gentle. "Is that a weird thing to say?"

"Nope," he sighed, smiling. "You can say anything to me, Lydia."

And she knew that was true, because he loved her, loved her despite the person she used to be, despite all of her flaws, despite the ugly scars scattered over her body. She looked into his eyes, and her walls came down all over again. "Stiles, I love you."

He looked shocked, and at the same time like he had known all along, like maybe he'd already imagined this and hoped for it without actually expecting it. His eyes were searching her face. "You do?"

She nodded. "It took me an embarrassingly long time to realise, I know. But I love you, more than I can put into words. I can't imagine my life without you in it. All I keep thinking is what an idiot I am, how we could have had so much time, _years_ even. Back when I was wasting my time with someone who didn't care about me when you were _right there_ -"

The mattress bowed under his weight as he surged forward, silencing her with his mouth. Immediately Lydia's arms wound around his neck as he pushed her into the bed, kissing her like he wasn't going to get another chance. He was suddenly nearly on top of her, elbows bracing himself against the mattress, his hands either side of her face. She melted into him, letting him tease her mouth open with his own, meeting his tongue with hers. She let out an involuntary moan that was so _not_ Lydia, because she was always the one in control, and she'd always thought the same about her and Stiles considering the way he used to worship her. Things were different now. Whatever was between them ran deep, and she could feel it as she buckled under his touch. "I love you too," he breathed into her mouth, his voice shaky. She dragged his face down once more, trying her best not to be desperate but _God_ , she needed him to kiss her again.

It was only when she found her fist in his hair and her leg wrapped around his waist that he dragged his lips from hers, breathing heavily. "Wait."

Lydia groaned, not wanting to talk. She tried to tug him back down to her, but he resisted. "Lydia, hold on a second."

She stilled, staring at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just…I don't think we should, y'know." He gestured at the space between them, which, granted, wasn't much. Lydia let her hands drop to her sides, bringing her leg down to the bed. "I mean, I want you." He laughed breathlessly, shaking his head. "I want you, like, so bad."

She smiled at that, her eyes sparkling with unabashed love, because she didn't need to hide it any more. "I want you too Stiles."

He ran a hand through his hair, and she could tell he was still reeling from the fact that he could have sex with her, if he wanted. He looked a little shell-shocked from what had just happened. "I…just don't want us to be fresh from battle, still hurt. I mean, God Lydia, my _bones_ are tired."

She laughed, nodding. "I could sleep, that's for sure."

He stroked his thumb against her bottom lip, gazing at her with such adoration that she could barely breathe. "I just want to be with you right now. I just want to fall asleep next to you."

He was right. They had time, what with the absence of pack meetings and dangerous pistol-wielding men on horses. Lydia was sure there would be something else, more danger, in the future. For now it was just her and Stiles, and they had the rest of the day, week, month, to get to know each other. There was no need to rush.

Plus, she really needed some shuteye.

Lydia nodded wordlessly, leaning into his hand. "Okay."

They lay side by side again, fingers intertwined, examining each other's faces. Lydia took the time to go through all of her memories of him, from the beginning until now. She wanted to make sure they were all there. She watched as Stiles' eyes fluttered shut, sleep finally claiming him. She let her own float closed.

She paused, eyes still shut. "But you started it, FYI. You kissed _me_. I'm not responsible for what happened afterwards."

Stiles hummed sleepily, pulling her towards him. "You always have to have the last word, don't you?"

She put her hand over his chest, taking comfort in the steady heartbeat there, knowing that he was _real_. "When I happen to be right, yes. Which is most of the time."

"Why do you always have an answer for everything?" he mumbled into her hair. She clutched at his shirt, breathing him in. He was real, and he was hers.

And she was his.

"Because I have an IQ of-"

"170, I know."


End file.
